Houses
by emmiemac
Summary: "…the lone wolf dies but the pack survives." Sansa and Sandor explain the importance of family to their small children however in doing so they must also confront some difficult and painful memories. Futurefic.
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on character[s] from George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire

"_Go home, child. You _have_ a home, which is more than many can say in these dark days."_

_Elder Brother to Brienne of Tarth on the Quiet Isle. _AFFC

**HOUSES**

"M'lady."

The young man who had found him bowed to her and gestured to the covered bridge leading from the Great Keep to the armory. Sansa nodded to him and peered into the walkway. Her husband stood at the sole window, looking out onto the yard of Winterfell. The ground was muddy from the day's steady rainfall and the remaining patches of snow that lingered in corners and at the bases to towers had formed icy crusts as the night air grew cooler.

"Would you be so kind as to fetch my lord's cloak? Thank you," she murmured courteously. Sansa Stark was raised to be a lady and to run a great household and was taught that courtesies were not only to be extended to the high-born. Since having suffered years of ill-treatment as the hands of those she had once thought the noblest in the Seven Kingdoms, she was grateful to find true kindness from anyone. Her courtesies were no longer simply her armor but all the more sincere now that she had learned to trust again.

She approached him slowly though she knew he was aware of her presence: the wooden planks beneath her feet were mostly new, replaced to ensure there were not any rotting boards after the long winter, and her footfalls and the creaking of the boards sounded clearly in the enclosed space. Still he continued to stare and did not turn to her. She wrung her hands and furrowed her brow in distress but she was determined to reach him, to calm and comfort him before he came back into the Keep.

The young servant returned with the cloak and she took it from him. "That will be all," she said softly but with finality. They were to be left strictly alone.

The cloak gave her a purpose and so she walked steadily now without hesitation. "Please take this," she implored him gently as she reached up to drape it over his wide shoulders, "the night air is cold."

He grunted slightly in acceptance but kept his eyes on the yard and both hands braced on either side of the window. She ran her hand down his arm now, a faint caress, and pressed her forehead to his shoulder in supplication.

"Sandor…"

"I'm sorry, little bird," he interrupted wearily; "I wanted to be a good man for you…and for them. I –"

"You are good," she insisted as he shook his head, "you _are_, Sandor. Don't say you are not, not to the person who knows that best, who knows _you _best. You lost your temper, that is all; you-"

"I terrified them; I saw it in their faces, Sansa; they were frightened of me," he snorted from his nose angrily, "…just as you used to be," he growled. "It seems the Hound could not stay dead."

"Don't. Don't call yourself that," she entreated in a low voice. "You are not a dog."

He sneered as he turned to her now, a look she had not seen on his face in many years. "Am I not then? Tell me, Lady Stark, who was it raged at your children just now, until they cowered and spilled fat tears and you had to stand between them and me?" He bent over her as he challenged her.

"_I_ am Lady Clegane, and those are _your_ children, and I do _not_ need to remind you of that," she told him firmly though her voice quavered from hurt, for him, for all of them.

It had been a terrible evening. The rain had kept them all inside all day and patience and tempers had worn frightfully thin. Finally their two boys had fought over a toy, shoving and insulting each other and coming to blows. It was too much for Sandor, who had watched it all unfold quickly with his eyes growing wider and then narrowing like a beast of prey. Before she could stop him, he had erupted like wildfire.

…..

"ENOUGH!" He bellowed and flew at his sons who jumped and turned with wide eyes.

"YOU DARE FIGHT IN HERE? AND IN FRONT OF YOUR MOTHER AND SISTER?" He rasped hoarsely, bending over at them as he shouted.

The boys looked to Sansa and their sister, seated side by side as mother instructed daughter in needlework. They looked startled and bewildered, and did not know how to answer their father who seemed enraged and angrier than they had ever seen him.

"ANSWER ME! WHAT KIND OF BOYS FIGHT OVER NOTHING? HOW WILL I EVER TEACH YOU ARMS IF YOU WILL FIGHT OVER TOYS? SWORDS ARE NOT TOYS! REAL MEN DO NOT DRAW STEEL OVER NOTHING!"

He grabbed the eldest roughly and pulled the toy from his hand. "IS THIS MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR BROTHER?" He held it up to the boy's nose.

"I-it's mine," the boy tried to tell him, "and he took it…"

"AND YOU'LL FIGHT YOUR OWN BROTHER FOR IT? HERE!" Sandor turned and hurled the toy against the hearth where it smashed resoundingly and turned back to his son as the shattered wooden pieces skittered about the room or fell into the fire. "I TOOK IT FROM YOU. WILL YOU FIGHT ME NOW?"

"_Sandor_!" Sansa rushed to him, seeing the fearful confusion in her sons' eyes. She stepped in front of him to make him look at her. When she looked into his eyes she saw he was wild, like a sick man raging with fever, and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

His head snapped up in surprise, and he looked for a moment as though he did not recognize her. Then he heard the crying. He looked over to see the youngest, Robb, gasp in his breath as tears came to him. The eldest, Ned, stood still but he quivered and his eyes glistened. Across the room his daughter had her hand pressed to her mouth and big tears hanging from her lashes; when she blinked they rolled down her cheeks.

He raised his heavy brow in surprise and looked back to his wife, confounded, and then raised his voice again.

"Stop that! All of you stop your crying; stop it now!" But he faltered and stood slack-jawed.

"Papa…" his daughter sniffled. He saw she looked frightened. He had seen that look before, on another girl, a lifetime ago. He turned to that girl, now a woman: his wife.

"Seven buggering hells!" He breathed.

Sansa gasped slightly. "Sandor, not in front of the –"

But he did not hear her; he had turned away and now stalked away from them, only turning back for one last look as he went out the door. She saw clearly how his anger had turned to anguish and wanted to follow him. But her children were crying and so she turned back to them to comfort them. Within moments, their nurse appeared at the door where Sandor had just disappeared.

"Help me, please, Nan." As she spoke, Rickon and his page appeared as well. "Find Sandor, please, and come tell me where he is." The page left immediately but Rickon lingered a moment, then came in to help.

"Papa is very angry at us," Robb told his uncle sadly, still sniffling.

Sansa shook her head. "No, my sweet boy," she kissed his brow to soothe him, "he is angry at himself."


	2. Chapter 2

_Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him._

_Sansa prays for Sandor. _ACOK

He was angry at himself; and likely unforgiving towards himself as well. She took his hand now on the covered bridge, her heart aching for him.

"You're a good father, Sandor. You love them, they know you do. You do not indulge them: it is right they should learn respect and to obey you, you are their father. And they love _you, _Sandor. You are Catya's Florian," she teased gently, knowing he despised songs and stories of knights, "and the boys' hero." He hung his head contritely and shook it again and so she cupped his face in both her hands and leaned closer to him. "_Yes_, you are. And mine," she added, kissing him softly now.

When she drew back she could see even in the darkness that he had closed his eyes tightly, overwhelmed. Sandor Clegane was a strong man but emotions such as he felt for his family had been unfamiliar to him once. Sansa saw how patient and even gentle he was with their children, tempering his characteristic gruffness. He truly loved them and tried so hard to be good that a small part of her wondered that he had not faltered sooner. _Fighting over a toy, and so close to the fire._ She remembered when he had told her about Gregor and the wooden knight, and prayed she could comfort him better now than she had as a girl.

"Boys will fight, Sandor; my brothers fought…and played rude japes and gave each other bloodied lips and bruises –"

"And how am I to know that?" he demanded bitterly. "I had a brother too, and he drew blood as well but it was no jape, girl. How am I to raise a family when –"

He paused and his chest heaved, once, twice: his breath fogging in the cold, then she dared finish his thought:

"…when you did not truly have one."

His laugh was bitter too. "Bugger me, girl, the Mountain hasn't truly died either."

"He's dead," she pronounced emphatically, "and you're alive, and you have a family of your own now. Sandor," she leaned in again, speaking softly but firmly, "mayhaps it is best we told them."

He frowned sternly at her suggestion. "Told them…about Gregor? Seven buggering hells, little bird, do you want to give them nightmares about the Mountain that Rides? Rode?" He was confused now.

"You needn't tell them the worst," she said squeezing his hand and bringing his attention back to her, "but they need to know how bad things can be, how bad people can be. We cannot protect them forever; we both know that well."

He gazed at her forlornly, clearly seeing her own sadness at her memories. He reached out now to stroke her hair. "I could not even protect you, little bird; fierce dog that I was."

"You tried, tried to warn me," she told him sadly. She shivered. Then she shook her head, as though to clear it and nodded resolutely instead. "We shall tell them of our houses."

"Ours?" He chided her and lifted her chin to better look at her. "Why your house, little bird?"

"Because, it began here, when King Robert arrived, and you with him," she looked out the window and onto the dark empty yard where once all of Winterfell had awaited the King's arrival, and a something of a dark shadow passed over her lovely face: "My family's fall, Sandor, and near-ruin."

….

"I've brought the children, m'lady," their nurse said and led them through the door to Sansa and Sandor's bedchamber in the Great Keep. A fire burned in the hearth. The children were all in bedclothes and heavy wool robes and fur slippers with pink, fresh-scrubbed faces and wary eyes. But when Sandor turned from the window to look at them with a doggedly sad face, their daughter Catya broke away suddenly and ran to him, throwing her arms open.

"Papa, Papa, Papa…" she whimpered and jumped into his arms where he caught and lifted her into a fierce hug, his eyes shut tight in gratitude for his daughter's love. He planted a kiss on her head and looked to his sons.

"You too," he beckoned hoarsely, bending to one knee and reaching his arms out to them. Robb scampered to him but Ned walked slowly and stopped short.

"I'm sorry, Father," he said small boy's halting sincerely, "we were wrong to fight. I-" But Sandor had put his hand on the boy's head of auburn hair and drawn him closer.

"Aye, there's a good lad, Ned. I'm proud of you. And I'm sorry too: I was wrong to shout and get so angry, and to break your toy. Come here."

He pulled both boys into an embrace and kissed each on their heads as he had kissed his daughter.

Sansa stepped forward now, unwilling to let the chance to teach her children pass.

"Come sit on the bed," she urged them gently. "We have much to tell you."

"We won't fight anymore," Robb piped up, hoping to forestall a lecture on good behavior.

Sansa smiled indulgently. "Doubtless you will; my brothers fought, and I fought with my sister when we were girls. But you need to understand why your father and I are upset to see you fight, so that as you grow up, you do not carry your fights and grudges with you, or stop caring about each other. You must always remember that you are family, and have each other." Her voice caught in her throat and she swallowed before she could continue. "Some people lose their families, and some never truly have one."

She looked down on her children's faces and saw their perplexed expressions.

"But…doesn't everyone have a mother and father?" Catya asked, clearly pained to think otherwise.

"We mean a family where you are safe and loved, as we hope you know you are here," her father replied solemnly as he pulled a chair up to the edge of the bed were they sat all in a row next to Sansa: three little pairs of little fur-bundled feet dangling high off the floor and three pairs of owlish eyes looking to him for understanding. The light of the many candles on the tables and mantel flickered slightly made their faces glow. For a fleeting moment he wished that he did not have to do this, to take away their innocence and possibly their trust in others, but the words he once told his little bird on the roof of the Red Keep came back to him now.

_I'm honest. It's the world that's awful._ Sandor Clegane had never flinched from the truth or the hard lessons in life. He had learned early himself.

"But…how can you not be safe with your family?" Ned asked him.

Sandor sighed inwardly though he held his son's gaze levelly. "I'll tell you."


	3. Chapter 3

"_A Hound will die for you, but never lie to you." _

_Sandor to Sansa _ACOK

A hush fell in the chamber, with only the crackling of the fire in the hearth and a slight rattle of the shutters to be heard before he began.

"I was born to a landed house in the West. We were not nobles, not like your mother's family; my grandfather had been a kennelmaster in a great castle. One day, during a hunt, the lord of the noble castle was attacked by a lioness. His mount was killed but my grandfather saved his life by sending the dogs after her."

"Is that why you wear a dog sigil, Papa?" Catya interrupted brightly. Her mother gently put a hand on her shoulder to still her from interrupting her father.

"It is," he answered her. "The sigil of our house was three dogs sable on a golden field: gold for autumn when the hunt took place, three for the dogs that died. My grandfather was made a landed knight and given a small keep and lands, Clegane's Keep it was called; I don't know what they call it now but it is not ours anymore."

"A dog is a loyal animal: if he is well-trained and treated kindly, he will defend you and even die for you, as those three did. But some dogs are curs: they act only for themselves and are vicious, killers even, and will turn on you and each other."

"I had a brother," he told them for the first time, forcing the words out, "older than me and hugely big and strong, so that even though our banner flew dogs people called him The Mountain; but he was angry and mean, like a cur. He hurt people: men and women, boys and girls, even animals..." The crackling of the fire seemed very loud and his children were very quiet. He glanced up at them.

"I'm scared of him," young Robb whispered in the silence, huddling down into his robe.

"Everyone was scared of him," Sandor reassured his son gravely.

"Even _you_?" Ned asked doubtfully. He could not imagine his father being scared of anyone.

"Aye, Ned," he nodded slowly, "even me. It gave him joy to scare people."

He saw the little bird's eyes widen and then drop. He knew then she remembered their words from the roof of the Red Keep, before the Blackwater, when she had tried to thank him for saving her from the rioting mob and he had responded by holding his sword against her throat.

_So long as I have this, there's no man on earth I need fear._ But he had feared one man, his brother; almost as much as he had come to hate him.

"My brother was a brute; he hated everything, it seemed, and everyone: from servants, to maesters and men-at-arms and even his own family. He frightened everyone with his anger and his strength and his violence, so that they shook when he approached and could not even meet his eyes. He could not abide any noise, not even laughter and play, so that my sister and I would go hide and play in the woods, else he would get angry and hurt us. Eventually everyone in the keep went about silent and serious and our home became a grim and foreboding place that people sought to leave, or they avoided so that we had few visitors or tradesmen or even singers or mummers. Villagers and common folk hid indoors when the Mountain rode out. Even the dogs, the animals of our own house sigil, feared the keep because of his mean temper."

"But…why was he so angry, Papa?"

Sandor looked at his daughter, with her black hair and grey eyes so like a Clegane that she could have come from that same family and that same keep. He knew that he would kill anyone who made his daughter as fearful and tormented as his brother had made him, who would hurt her as Gregor had hurt their sister. He would mercilessly take the head off any man who harmed her: king or commons. He would be a dog for her.

"I do not know, my girl: our mother died when we were small, then my sister died young," he told her gently. "My father and I were sad but maybe he was angry. But that is not reason to frighten others, or harm them, or to make them feel small and weak." Things he had done himself, though later and for his own reasons: chiefly what Gregor had done to him and how it had made the world see him.

Sandor set his mouth grimly as he watched his children struggle to understand the little he was revealing to them. Gregor had in fact beaten, raped and murdered servants, and killed dogs and horses simply because they were there and he was angry. Some villagers and crofters had sent their daughters away, fearful that they would be called to work in the keep, and even promising boys would seek a place in Lannisport or Casterly Rock rather than with their master Clegane.

He would not tell them of his burns, of Gregor holding him to the fiery coals over a purloined toy. He did not want Ned to feel guilty or sad for having fought with his brother. He did not want to give them the same nightmares that had haunted his childhood and even his adult years. They knew their Papa had been burned as a boy but not how; they would needs be older before they could understand such cruelty.

And then there was his sister: no one had ever spoken of what had happened to her, in fact most had never spoken of her again, fearing Gregor's wrath. Despite his brutality and his many crimes, Gregor Clegane had been knighted; it was Sandor who had been shunned. He tasted bile at the memory, even now, and his guts twisted to think Gregor was still being protected; but he reminded himself that it was his children he was shielding now, not his dead monster brother. He continued.

"So when my father died, I could no longer bear living in fear and unhappiness, so I left my home, which had never truly felt like a home, not as it should have." He leaned forward though they were listening to him attentively. "You must understand, there is nothing wrong with leaving and going out into the world: it is natural for young men and even boys to leave and live in other houses and go into service as pages or squires or be wards to other families, " he told them in his raspy voice. "There is much to be learned by going into the world and being with other young boys or girls; we may even have wards here one day to keep you company and learn with you."

"Will you send us away?" Robb questioned piteously, his big Tully-blue eyes pleading.

Sandor looked to his little bird. They had never discussed this possibility, though it had long been a common practice in Westeros to ward out younger sons into service.

"We will never send you away if you do not want to go," she spoke soothingly to him. "But mayhaps you will want to go someday: my father was a ward in the Eyrie; and your uncle Jon left to join the Nights Watch at four-and-ten." He had left the same day she had left Winterfell for King's Landing, she remembered now, and she had wanted to leave so very badly. "But your Papa had to leave his family home," she continued, "else he would not have been safe."

"Where did you go, Papa?" Ned asked him now. "Did you become a squire?" He looked excited to hear more.

Sandor scoffed derisively at himself. "I went to join the lions."

"Not the lions who killed the dogs?" Catya asked warily.

"The very same," he rasped.

…..

"The house of the lions were lords of the Westerlands so every promising lad sought service with them. I was well-trained in arms, and tall and strong for my age, and so I offered my sword and was taken in and made a squire to one of their knights. Their castle was not gloomy or silent, but a place where people spoke and even laughed, and even the dogs went without fear. Because they were not mean and angry I thought them to be good and noble, and I was grateful to be in their service, as was right for a lad with no home to return to."

"Rebellion and war meant that the banners were called, and I soon served my knight in battle, and I fought alongside him, killing my first man at twelve. I was very good with arms and brave even, or so men said: but in truth I had lived with fear for so long that in the end, battle did not seem so very different, just louder."

"The lions praised me for my skills and bravery, and so I became devoted to them; I let their praise take the place of my old fear and so I would do anything they asked, unquestioningly and obediently. I was their most loyal dog."

Ned smiled at him, flushed with pride in his father. "That's good…to be loyal, isn't that right, Papa?"

Sandor's mouth twitched, and he paused to consider how best to explain to his son.

"Yes, Ned: loyalty is a good quality in a man. But because of my brother, I did not know what was good; I only knew fear so that I thought if I was not fearful then things were right. I even became feared myself, and I liked it: it made me feel strong and safe. It was more important to me to be feared than to be good: if people were afraid of me then I didn't even need to be brave, just fierce. I became a fearsome hound."

"I want to be brave," Robb piped up hopefully, but then his little face fell; "but sometimes I'm afraid."

"That's the only time a man can be brave."

They all turned suddenly to the open door of the bedchamber where Rickon leaned in the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. He was a young man now with his mother's Tully colouring: the same blue eyes and auburn hair as his sister Sansa and the little boys, Ned and Robb; though Rickon resisted haircuts and his hair usually fell past his shoulders in waves and curls. Sansa smiled wistfully to see him grown tall and strong, of an age now with their brother Robb when he had been…

"Uncle!" The children clamored at him now. Rickon may have been lord of Winterfell, but he would still play with them in the yard or the solar when he wasn't training with Sandor and the rest of the garrison or sitting next to Sansa in the great hall as she advised him in his duties as Lord Stark.

"Our father used to say that," Sansa said softly, referring to Rickon's comment about bravery.

"So does my brother here," he gripped Sandor's shoulder affectionately. "Tells me not to be reckless or foolish, that rushing headlong isn't bravery; sometimes it's plain stupid. But standing your ground and facing your foes: that's brave. But even brave men die," he added seriously, looking to his nephews.

Catya sniffled now, made unsure by talk of fear and dying. "Did you kill brave men, Papa?"

Sandor lifted his head and looked her straight in the eyes, so like his own, and told her the truth. "I did, in battle: brave men and weak, scared men too. That's what war is: knights, soldiers, men-at-arms are for killing."

"My father killed men in battle as well," Sansa told them now.

Gods, Sandor loved her for that: for making his ferocity sound like duty. It had been, most times: he had done his duty but he had often enjoyed it, the power it gave him and the release of some of his endless rage. He'd killed more than just fighting men; he had killed women and children when they'd sacked King's Landing and later Pyke, and others like the boy who ran away in fear as he rode him down, but he would not tell them that. He'd been no different than most men but at least he never spoke the vows of a knight, never lied about what he was. Mayhaps that was not as bad; at least that is what he had always told himself. He did not want to seem so bad, not in the eyes of his own children; he wanted so much to be good for them. And here the little bird was comparing him to her honorable father.

He gazed at her in gratitude; she was so beautiful in her deep green gown, wrapped in a lavender shawl, with her fiery auburn hair falling over one shoulder and her graceful hands folded in her lap. It always seemed impossible that he could love her more, and yet he always did.

"As did our brother Robb, the king in the North," she continued quietly.

"The king in the North," Rickon echoed solemnly, nodding to himself.

"…and your uncle Jon, for the Nightswatch. Sometimes, it is a man's duty to fight, to kill and even die. That is why your Papa will train you with real swords one day, and mayhaps you will fight alongside him." Sansa tried to sound brave herself now, but the thought of her precious boys in battle made her even more fearful than she had been when Sandor had ridden out from Winterfell to fight the last of the Boltons and Freys in the North, and then the Others. She thought of her own mother then, who had watched her eldest son Robb ride off to battle, and her breath caught in her throat, a strangled sob. She was glad they were distracted by Rickon, who was jesting about training at arms with the boys, saying they would both beat him bloody, and she forced herself to smile again. Sansa could still hide her true feelings, when need be.


	4. Chapter 4

"_He has lost his master and kennel as well. He cannot go back to the Lannisters, the Young Wolf would never have him, _

_nor would his brother be like to welcome him. That gold was all he had left, it seems to me."_

_Thoros of Myr on Sandor _ASOS

"Where is Shaggydog?" Ned asked his uncle about his great black direwolf.

"Out hunting. Forgive me," Rickon said to Sansa now, "should I leave you?" He was still somewhat wild and dismissive of formality, but he was considerate and kind.

Sansa smiled gently at him, and shook her head. She knew her youngest brother had always looked up to her husband, even when he was but her sworn shield; and that he loved him like a brother. He lowered himself onto a rug by the bed and turned his gaze up to Sandor with the same respectful attention as her small children.

_The little wilding boy is now a young man and Lord of Winterfell._ She felt her heart fill for him; he had taken the loss of his family to heart as a boy and so had wanted them to stay on at Winterfell after the wars, hovering on the edges of their family and looking to them for love and guidance. Mayhaps he would have his own family soon, she hoped, when he came into his majority. He had become shyly attentive in the last year towards the youngest Poole sister, Ayme, who was pretty and dark-haired like her friend Jeyne, but still soft and gentle unlike her oldest sister's now haunted and jittery countenance. Poor Jeyne: her ordeals, harsher than Sansa's own even, had left her a frail ghost of herself, and she rarely ventured from her family's small keep, sometimes not even leaving her chamber for days on end. But Ayme had spent the wars in relative isolation with her mother and sisters, suffering only the privations of cold and hunger that the long winter had brought on all of them and the losses of fighting the Others. Now a young woman flowered, she brightened in Rickon's presence, and looked up at him with her soft doe eyes and a softer smile, blushing prettily. The Pooles would once have been too low-born for the Starks, but the loss of so many in the North had meant an easing of such constraints. Many had died and many had risen to take their places; even her husband had risen from sworn shield to commander to Captain of the Guards and Master-at-Arms to Lord Clegane, a fit consort to the Lady of Winterfell though Sansa would not have cared if he had been made a squire again, so in love with him was she by the time they had made their journey to Winterfell. Sansa wondered now if Rickon had confided his feelings or his plans to Sandor; but certainly he, in turn, would have confided in her. But all that was for another time, she reminded herself. Her husband was speaking again.

"I served the lions many years. I guarded their daughter, who was wed to the king. And there were more battles and another rebellion. The king was a mighty stag, a warrior, and from him I learned that sharp steel and strong arms ruled the world. As the lions became more powerful, I saw that they were able to rule others and so I thought the kind were weak and the honorable foolish; I thought nobles' courtesies were just lies behind which they hid their contempt for others, their ambitions or their failures," he admitted. "Especially did I hate knights, for their ceremonies and their vows seemed like more lies: they fought and killed as brutally as any men, if not worse. My brother was knighted, and I told you what kind of man he was."

"In time I guarded the queen's son, called a prince though in truth he was not the king's true son. He was proud like a lion, but became mean like a cur and cruel like my brother, though not strong and never brave. They boy had everything: title, riches, a family, even the love of a beautiful young girl and still he wanted to be feared; and he liked hurting people though he would never do it himself. Fearsome and hard as I was, I flinched at his cruelty. I didn't like him, and I didn't like serving him; not anymore."

"Did you leave him, Papa?" Catya asked, sounding relieved.

"That boy king would have had his head," Rickon told her when he saw Sandor hesitate. He drew his finger across his throat and Catya gasped and shook.

"Yes, undoubtedly," Sansa agreed firmly. She had known Joffrey's cruelty too well.

"True enough," Sandor rasped, "but I also believed I had nowhere to go, I had no home. No one would want the cruel king's dog: my loyalty to them had made me feared but without a great house to shelter him even the fiercest fighter is just a sellsword who needs a master to feed and board him. Without the lions, I was a freerider and worse, a deserter. I had no family, no friends, no comrades: I had placed all my faith and loyalty with the lion's house, and I had been wrong. _I only know who's lost. Me._ I may have been free, but now I was alone."

"But didn't you have Mama?" Robb asked, confused.

Sandor looked to his little bird. "Not yet," he answered in a strangely wistful rasp.

"Where was she?"

His mouth twitched; then his eyes dropped to the floor under heavy brows: ashamed. "I left her with the lions."

…..

All three children drew sharp breaths, their eyes widening and little mouths dropping open in stupefaction.

"But why, Papa, _why_?" Catya questioned, on the verge of tears.

"Your Papa tried to rescue me," Sansa interrupted firmly, "but I was too scared to run: it was dark, and everything was on fire." She looked to Sandor now; it had been him she had feared and he knew that but she hesitated to tell her children, feeling it disloyal to their father.

"Your mother was only a girl then," he rasped. "I came to her from battle covered in blood and smelling of the fires: I must have looked like the Stranger himself that night." _Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life. _ "She had good reason to be just as frightened of me."

_Dog: you held a dagger to her throat and made her sing for you. You threw away what you wanted most because you thought you could never have it, have her. Yet here you sit with your children, by her, gods be good; and she defends you to them. _

"What fires? Was it a battle with dragons?" Ned asked him. He loved to hear about dragons.

"The Battle of the Blackwater, it's called, Ned," Sandor told him. "The whole river and the fleet at King's Landing caught fire. I was fighting for the lions when I decided I did not care if they won; I did not care who ruled the world anymore but I would not help the lions do it and so I stopped fighting for them. But there were no dragons, not yet."

"Why were you in King's Landing, Mama? Why did you live with the lions and not here at Winterfell?" Robb wrung his little hands together.

She reached to put her hand gently over his. "I also left home when I was young; though not like your Papa did. I lived here and was safe and had a loving family. Our house was happy one, and I knew only kindness and honor. But I loved songs and stories of brave knights and beautiful ladies, and so I wanted to leave, to see the world of love and honor and beauty for myself. So when the king of the Stag house came to visit Winterfell, I feel in love with the lion queen and her princely son. They were so beautiful and golden that I thought that they must be noble and good, for the gods could not give so many gifts to cruel hard people. And I thought they loved me too," she trailed off weakly.

"You left," Rickon looked up at her now, "you and father and Arya…and Jon."

"…and Lady and Nymeria and Ghost. You were so young. You cried," she remembered.

Rickon nodded, and looked away.

"The stag king asked my father to serve him; since my father was his oldest friend, and honorable, he left Winterfell, and took my sister and I with him to King's Landing. I was to marry the lion prince," she admitted, staring dully into the middle distance; "I thought he was beautiful and I wanted him to love me and to have a beautiful life together, like I had heard of in songs." She swallowed hard before continuing. "But the lion prince was a cruel craven, and a liar." She thought guiltily of the butcher's boy she had not defended, the one killed by Sandor but it had been his duty; and how her beloved direwolf Lady had paid with her life, while Arya's direwolf Nymeria had to be driven off. She had blamed Arya, and her father; everyone but Joffrey and the queen…and herself.

_If only I had told the truth then, I would not have had to spend the next years of my life lying._


	5. Chapter 5

_She had lost her home, her place in the world, and everyone she had ever loved or trusted__._

_Tyrion on Sansa _ASOS

"He was a liar, and had no honor: my prince," she recounted with a wry, almost bitter twist of her mouth. "The queen and lion prince said they loved me, and I believed them, because I believed in honor. My father saw it clearly but I would not believe it of him, I could not see it."

_You would not see it: you thought him the golden prince of your songs. Stupid girl. Even when they put your father in a black cell, you still wanted to be his queen. He was a liar, and you let him lie to you._

"You see, because he had no family but a cruel brother, your Papa thought most people were bad or weak, and he was wrong. But had been so protected that I trusted that most people were honorable and good, and I was also wrong. So _very _wrong," she repeated passionately.

"My father meant to send my sister and I back to Winterfell, to keep us safe…"

Here Sansa had to stop and try to still her quavering voice. She pursued her lips together before continuing, forcing her next words out with difficulty.

"I-I defied my father, and I went to the queen to beg to be allowed to remain with the lions, and to wed the prince; and so the queen knew my father did not trust her or her son. The lions killed the stag king so they could put their prince on the throne, and he put my father in a cell and he- he had him put to death. He –he promised me mercy, and so I stood and smiled at my father only to have the prince call for his head. He lied, and after he kept me for his prisoner. I had to pay him court to him, I had to do what he said, else…" here her voice failed her again.

_Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants._ She had tried, but it had never been enough, and her once-golden prince had her beaten by his guards, stripped and humiliated before the entire court.

"Your mother was very brave," Sandor said now, "and always a gentle lady, no matter how they treated her."

"Poor Mama," Catya's lip quivered. Sansa reached and cupped her daughter's cheek lovingly, possessively, and remembered why she felt she had to tell her children all these terrible things.

_They will not be as I was. They will not be fooled by pretty faces and sweet lies. They will know life is not a song._

"It was very hard because I was alone," she told her children. "My father was killed, and my sister disappeared. The lions would not let me go home. I missed my family terribly, and wished I could see them again and tell them how much I loved them, and I wished…I wished that I had been kinder to them. Arya and I fought so much, and it turned out to be over nothing. Though we knew our family's words, winter is coming; we did not know how bad things could truly become. _Arya saw, she was smarter than I, and braver, just like Catya; please let her be like Arya: Sandor can teach her._

"Then a war started because other men wanted to be king, men from the house of stags, the old king's brothers; my brother Robb was named King in the North, another from a house of krakens wanted to be a king as well. His son stole Winterfell for his own house, and we thought he had killed you," she said to Rickon, her voice choking, "killed you and Bran: two brave and sweet boys, left alone when mother and Robb tried to save father, and then Arya and myself."

"Did they save you?" Ned asked hopefully, but his blue eyes were grave.

Sansa paused, overwhelmed. _Too much, they're so young._ She shook her head sadly, her eyes dull.

"No, they could not," she continued quietly. "They- they were betrayed by another house of the North, and one of the Riverlands. They were killed, my mother and Robb…and his direwolf." She drew another tremulous breath. "Many brave men were killed with them."

"They killed them in their own house," Sandor explained levelly when he saw Sansa falter and Rickon grow grim and stern-looking, "under their own roof: broke the laws of hospitality, guest rights, they were called. A man was supposed to be safe once he was invited into a castle; to harm him was the worst of crimes. It brought shame and dishonor to their house," he told them sternly. _I saw it happen; I was there._

"Maester says when a man gives bread and salt, he gives his guests rights; but if he puts his bare sword across his lap, it means he refuses guest rights," Ned recited now.

"That is right, Ned: you are learning your lessons well." Sandor replied. "Remember that it is important how you treat others in your house."

Sansa smirked inwardly at this, remembering how she was treated in the Red Keep, by royalty, by nobles and by knights sworn to protect the innocent.

"I thought I was alone in the world then, that all my family were gone. I was alone with the lions, and I had to lie and make them believe I loved them so they would not hurt me." _But they did anyway. They made me a lion, forced me to marry one of their own. Lady Lannister, they called me, and I wanted to scream: I am Sansa Stark! But a Stark was what they all wanted: my claim to Winterfell; never me. No one wanted a traitor's daughter, a traitor's sister, a lion's leavings, Cat's daughter. All they had wanted was the North. _

"They kept me because they wanted Winterfell and the North, and they thought they would have it through me." She did not mention her marriage to Tyrion, she did not think her children would understand a political marriage, or just the fact that their father was not her first husband. Besides, nothing made Sandor angrier than the Imp, and they had already seen enough of his rage tonight.

"Though I escaped the lions one day, I had to spend many years hiding from them, pretending to be someone else. I could not be a Stark of Winterfell; and I could not come home because the lions had given it to another house. I believed no one would ever love me again, because I was no longer truly myself at all." _I was Alayne Stone, the bastard girl: men wanted to grope and bed me and even sing songs to my beauty, but no one loved a bastard._

"Papa loved you," Catya insisted innocently.

Sansa laughed once through her misty tears. "You are right, he did love me; only I did not know it yet." _He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak._

"But why not?"

"They told me…" _Littlefinger_ "…told me he was dead."

….

"Who told you that? Ned demanded indignantly. "It was a lie! Papa was never _dead_!"

"No," he rasped now, "but very near dead."

"Were you hurt in a battle, Papa?" Catya asked timidly.

"Not quite a battle, more of a fight," his mouth twitched as he recounted. "I came across some of my brother's men at an inn who were intent on capturing me to win his favor, and so I had to fight my way out. I succeeded, but I was badly wounded. I later fell from my horse and sat beneath a tree, waiting to die. I would have died if I had not been found and taken in."

"Who took you in: another house?"

"A sort of a house, Ned: I was taken in by a man of the faith, a monk who served the Seven. He healed me and let me stay at the monastery until I grew stronger. He was a good man, kind and strong, and he called me brother. I was safe there, and for a while it was my home."

Catya ventured another timid question: "Why did your brother's men want to capture you, Papa?"

"So he could hurt me, so he could kill me," he told her honestly.

"The monk was a better brother to you," Rickon observed, making a half-hearted jest.

"That he was, brother," Sandor replied unhesitatingly. "He showed me kindness, and true strength: the kind without fear. I learned I could do other things besides frighten and kill people, that I could be more than a dog. He taught me what it was to be a good man, and gave me everything I did not have as a child in our home, and I am grateful to him." _I have tried to be a good man, l__ike you deserve,_ he thought as he looked at his family. He cleared his throat.

"Why did you leave him if you were safe in his house, Papa?

Sandor's mouth twitched and he told his daughter seriously: "Because, Catya, I had to be certain that your mother was safe too."

Catya beamed at this, while Sansa smiled gently and lowered her eyes, moved by his wholehearted admission of devotion, all the more touching for its simplicity. Instinctively, the hand in her lap slid towards him, her fingertips reaching. He suddenly took it in his two big rough hands and held it tightly, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees and looking at her intently.

"I had failed her, you see," he rasped. "I had not protected her as I should have when we were with the lions; I even left her with them…" His thumb caressed her hand steadily and he continued, his words low and solemn as he gazed at her.

"I was afraid they would find her, and hurt her for running away. I had to find her first and keep her safe from them, from anyone who would harm her."

"And bring her back North," Rickon interjected, "home to Winterfell. There must always be Starks at Winterfell," he insisted firmly.

"But we're Cleganes," Ned replied. "This is _your_ house, uncle Rickon."


	6. Chapter 6

"…_the hardest aspect of the battle between good and evil is determining which is which."_

_George R.R. Martin_

Rickon turned to look at Ned. "This is your home, Ned; as long as I am Lord of Winterfell, this will always be your family's home as well." He turned back to face Sandor and Sansa. "You're my family," he told them earnestly, but the line between his eyes made it seem more a question.

"Yes," Sansa confirmed simply. "And Bran and Jon and Arya; we are all family, even though we are not all together…" She saw her brother's mouth tighten in sullenness. _Still the angry boy, my poor Rickon._ "Families do not always stay together in the same place," she told her children though she spoke as much to Rickon; "girls marry and oftentimes live in their husbands' homes; boys leave to serve in other houses, as your father told you." Sandor still held her hand, and she drew strength from his presence.

"Wherever you go, you must still be family to each other, and love each other, as we love you. It can very hard to be far away from home, or feel that you have lost or never had a home or a family. Being alone can make you afraid, or angry," she looked at Rickon, "but knowing you have a family who loves you, even when they are far way or gone can give you strength, can make you remember what is right and honorable, if you were taught properly. We will do our best to teach you properly: your father and I and your nurse and the maester; but you must help each other, and then you must be there for each other, even when we are gone…" Sansa paused, hoping they understood.

"…the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," Rickon finished solemnly.

Sansa blinked away a tear. "Our father said that too."

"Are we wolves, Mama?" Robb asked her.

"You all have Stark blood, as much as Clegane," Sandor replied firmly, before Sansa could answer.

"What's our house sigil then: a dog or a direwolf?" Ned asked now.

"We have a banner of a dog and a direwolf quartered on gold and white," Sandor told him. "It is in the armory somewhere."

"Can we fly it?" he asked excitedly.

"The direwolf flies over Wintefell," Sansa said with finality.

"Why don't we have a keep?" he persisted. "Why isn't Clegane's Keep yours, Papa?"

"Because they thought all the Cleganes were dead, Ned. It was given to another house for their keep."

"Is the Mountain dead, Papa?" Catya asked quietly.

"He is, Catya; he can't hurt us anymore," he reassured her.

"He was a bad man," Robb said fretfully.

"Who killed him?" Ned asked now, "Was it you, Papa?"

"That's _kinslaying_!" Catya objected, shocked at her brother's suggestion.

Sandor paused before replying. "A brave man from Dorne killed him in single combat, but he died as well," he told them simply. Oberon Martell had in fact killed Gregor Clegane; the demise of Ser Robert Strong, whoever or whatever he was, was a story for another day, thought Sandor cautiously.

"Bad men should be killed," Ned said with conviction.

"But good men die too, my sweet boy, like the brave Dornishman," Sansa told him sadly. "Sometimes, bad people flourish and good people suffer. Sometimes the bad people seem to be good, because they have the power or the wealth. My family were called traitors, though they were good; but even they had to fight battles, and put men to death." She struggled with what she wanted to explain and so looked to Sandor for assistance. He looked equally baffled to clarify.

"We have a sort of a keep," he told his children instead, "and lands, here in the North."

"Why don't we live there?"

Sansa and Sandor exchanged looks now. "It was destroyed in the wars; it belonged to another house once. It would take a very long time to be made liveable, if ever."

The Boltons' stronghold, called the Dreadfort, had been besieged and gutted during the Starks' reclaiming of the North. Thought an accursed place by the Northerners for the Boltons' many crimes and their cruel practice of flaying their enemies, the entire keep had been put to the torch, especially the dungeons. After the wars, when Rickon awarded his faithful bannermen with lands and titles, many had gasped when he awarded the Dreadfort to Sandor Clegane. Sansa realized it was because Rickon knew it would be many years before it could be rebuilt, thereby ensuring that Sandor and Sansa would stay with him at Winterfell. Meanwhile, they had rights to the territory to their east, and Sandor frequently sent patrols to ensure the safety of the crofters and commons who worked the surrounding lands.

"Does the keep have a name?" Catya asked.

Sandor nearly smiled. "The last patrols reported that there are wolves living in the ruins of the castle," he told them. 'We have thought to name it Greywind Keep, after your uncle Robb's direwolf: would you like that?"

The three children nodded happily at the suggestion.

"We can live with the wolves!" Robb squeaked excitedly. "Wooo-wooooo," he cried and turned to Ned, "we're a wolf pack, brother!"

"Woooo-wooooo!" Ned echoed, laughing.

"Wooo-_oooooooooooooo…_" Rickon tipped his head back and gave a long and mournful howl and then stopped abruptly, angling his head to the window. Outside, a true and more haunting howl sounded.

"That's Shaggydog," Rickon said, standing quickly and sprinting into the hallway.

"Papa, will we leave uncle Rickon and Winterfell?" Catya asked tentatively.

"No, my girl," he told her, "Greywind Keep will be a very long time in rebuilding. Mayhaps your children or your brothers' children will live there one day; but we will not."

His daughter nodded, relieved; and Sansa hugged her comfortingly. Though Sansa had long suspected they would never live in the ruined Dreadfort, she was relieved to hear it as well.

….

Before long Rickon returned, his sleeve stained with blood from his direwolf's muzzle.

"Did Shaggydog catch something?" Ned asked.

"Yes, and so did I: a great big _black fish_!"

In the doorway behind him stood his great-uncle Brynden Tully, known as the Blackfish. He had been Catelyn Stark's favorite uncle as well as King Robb's loyal advisor and he had journeyed North when Rickon and Sansa returned to Winterfell to help them reclaim their father's seat. Now he divided his time between Winterfell and Riverrun and occasionally the Wall to visit Jon and Bran. They saw from his dripping cloak and wet face that he had clearly ridden through driving rains to get to them by nightfall.

"Great-uncle Brynden," Sansa greeted him as she rose.

"Blackfish," Sandor stood and clasped hands with the man.

"Clegane," he replied. "Sansa," he said, looking at her sharply beneath bushy grey brows. He noted that she looked pale and drawn.

"We have been telling the children…" she began, gesturing towards her sons and daughter.

"I know," he answered, wiping the rain from his face, "Rickon told me. Your mother and father had hard times," he told the children now, "many people do; that's why the Stark words are _winter is coming_. But the Tullys have words too: _family, duty, honor._ Those are the things that'll see you through the hard times, as it did for us. It's never easy; but it is right: win or lose."

"Family," Rickon muttered: "Bran didn't come."

Blackfish turned to look at him now. "He's stronger north of the Wall, Rickon; do you grudge your brother that, using what strength he has when he is not able to use his legs?"

Rickon looked down and nudged a corner of the rug with his foot, looking chastened. "No," he managed finally. Then he looked up again, defiant: "Starks belong at Winterfell. Father never should have left. We would all still be here."

"You think so, do you? How safe would we have all been with that young Lannister bastard on the throne? Would your father staying here have stopped the Targaryens from returning, or the Wildings from attacking the Wall and the Others from descending on us? To say nothing of dragons: seven save us, in my own lifetime too. Winter came with a bloody screaming vengeance, my young Lord, and for _all _of us."

"Hm, I guess..." Rickon mumbled. "But family comes before honor-"

"Your father lost his family too. His own father, Brandon, Lyanna," the Blackfish shook his head mournfully. "And he did his duty as well: he married Cat, he took on Jon's care, and he became Lord of Winterfell. How do you think he felt taking on all that, knowing it was supposed to have been his brother's? He must have felt very scared and alone, your father, and needed some kind of strength: his honor was his armor, Rickon; it's what kept him strong and helped him to do right. It's not his honor that failed him either; it was others' lack of it. So don't you be so hard on him," he told his great-nephew, leaning in closer and lowering his smokey voice so that the boy would listen.

Rickon swallowed hard, and nodded his understanding. He saw the similarities between his father's life and his own, and was both humbled and encouraged. "I-I won't…thank you, great-uncle…I-"

"I could use some wine," the Blackfish interrupted, "as could you." He gripped the boy's shoulder. "Will you join us, Clegane?"

"Thank you, Blackfish; not tonight," he sighed, putting his arm around Sansa and inclined his head towards their children.

"I understand," the Blackfish told him. He reached out and gently put his hand on Sansa's cheek, looking concerned. "Until tomorrow," he told them.

"Good night, great-uncle," she ventured quietly.

….

"Bed now; it's very late," Sandor announced gruffly to his children and they were tired enough to obey quickly. Robb rubbed his eyes tiredly and so Sandor put his arms out to lift him and Robb dropped his head on his father's shoulder and let himself be carried to bed.

The nurse was waiting up in the boys' bedchamber and so Sandor kissed his sons' heads and said goodnight to them, letting Nan and Sansa settle them into bed. Sandor walked Catya to her chamber alone. His daughter had become very quiet and he wanted to reassure her.

"Jump up," he rasped gruffly, pulling back the furs from her bed.

Catya obeyed, and when she had climbed up and sat herself down, Sandor sat facing her and watched her face carefully.

"You understand what we told you, and why we told you?" he asked her now.

Catya nodded solemnly; then dropped her eyes from his gaze.

"You're not afraid?" he prompted.

"No," she whispered without looking up. "Papa?"

"Yes, Catya?"

"The- the Mountain…did he…"

_Of course: she's afraid of Gregor, the monster, even dead._ He held his breath. "Did he what, Catya?"

She looked up at him now, hesitating; her grey eyes searching his. Then she reached out her small hand and placed it gently on his scarred cheek, and her voice sounded even softer. "Did he burn you, Papa?"

Sandor's heart stopped momentarily, and then he realized the fear in his daughter's eyes was for him, for the tormented boy he had been. His heart filled with tenderness for her, and he lowered his head closer to her sweet face.

"Aye, Catya," he whispered back to her, "it was him."

Her eyes filled as she nodded knowingly, and she reached her arms up around his neck.

"I love you, Papa," she whispered through her tears.

Sandor wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tightly to him.

"I love you too, my Catya," he answered, his voice breaking. He brought his mouth to her small ear now. "Don't tell your brothers, or let Mama know you know." He felt her nod against his shoulder, and he pulled away to look at her now. "It will be out secret," he rasped confidingly. "Dry your eyes now."

Catya wiped her eyes and nodded obediently.

"That's my brave girl. Go to sleep."

She settled back against her bolster and he tucked the furs up under her chin. A shadow passed over them and Sansa stood beside the bed, a loving smile on her face for her daughter. She bent to kiss her now.

"Sleep well, my sweet Catya."

"Sweet dreams," Sandor added. "We'll go riding again when the weather is fine, I promise."

His promise brought a smile to her face. She loved to go riding with her father; he had taught her well and Sansa saw that she already rode as well as Arya had at the same age and much better than Sansa had.

Outside Catya's door Sandor saw that the little bird was fidgeting with her shawl, her expression strained. She looked up at him worriedly.

"Do you think it was right: what we told them?"

"I hope so, little bird. They did not seem too frightened, but perhaps time will tell. I do not want them to mistrust people as I did, and be angry and alone."

"I do not want them to trust people too much, or to be unprepared for the world as it truly is." She paused. "Sandor?"

"Yes, little bird?"

"Do you remember teaching me to defend myself, and to use a dagger?"

"Yes."

"Do you think, mayhaps…that you should teach Cat-"

"I have already started, little bird."

She looked at him now, her eyes wide in surprise, and she saw his mouth twitch.

"On our rides together," he confessed now. "I made a game of it so as not to frighten her: she understands a knife is not a toy. And I promised her to keep it our secret," he told her carefully.

Sansa nodded. "Very well," she accepted. _She's just seven._ "Thank you, Sandor, for protecting our daughter."

"I'm still a dog about some things, little bird," he jested, though they both knew he was serious. "Come to bed now; you must be tired."

She nodded again, and he took her hand in his.

**A/N: I had originally re-named the ruined Dreadfort Wolf's Den until I remembered it was the name of the prison at White Harbor. Oops.**


	7. Chapter 7

"_Do you want to be loved, Sansa? " _

"_Everyone wants to be loved."_

_Cersei and Sansa _ACOK

As he and Sansa walked slowly hand in hand back to their chamber, Sandor knew he wanted her. After having recounted to his children so much of his life that had been wrong, he needed to remember and feel what was right. When he closed the door and came to stand behind her and run his hands down her arms, he felt she was trembling, and he hoped it was in anticipation but she resisted when he tried to turn her to him. He felt stung by what he thought was her rejection after how she had spoken of him and held his hand in front of their children; but then he thought he heard a soft sob and walked around to face her instead.

"Little bird?" He rasped gently, "why do you cry now?"

Sansa put a shaking hand to her mouth and finally looked up at him, her big blue eyes wet with tears.

"It was my fault," she told him shakily, "all my fault, all of it. If I had not gone to the-the queen to tell her my father planned to take us back North, he would still be alive, and Robb and Mother and- Gods, Sandor, I was selfish and spoiled and I wanted to be a queen and live at court, I-"

Sandor gripped her shoulders tightly. "Look at me. _Look at me!_ It is not your fault; it was never your fault. Do you think if you had not gone to Cersei that she would have meekly accepted that Robert had named your father as her son's regent? Cersei killed Robert; Joffrey lied to you and killed your father; Stannis & Renly claimed the Iron throne, Theon betrayed your family and the Boltons betrayed your brother. It was none of it your doing, little bird: you were just a girl, an innocent, hopeful, beautiful little girl with a head full of songs and no notion of brutality or evil or plots: they played their game of thrones, Sansa, and you were a pawn…that is, until you remembered you were a wolf." He lifted her chin to hold her head up. "My Lady of Winterfell, hm?"

Still she trembled but she reached out for him now. "Hold me, Sandor, please," she whispered.

He drew her closer and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly to him. She had worried that their memories would be too difficult for their children but Sandor saw they had been too hard on her.

He did not often see this side of her anymore, the frightened girl she had once been when he had first been so very taken with her: scornful and smitten at the same time with her fragile yet fiery beauty and the sweet manners which he found in turns enchanting and infuriating. _So innocent_. But he had called her stupid then. He hadn't protected that girl; but he could now. "Hush, little bird, you're safe now; you're _home_."

"Home is when you hold me," she murmured, "when I'm yours." Her whispered breath was hot on his neck and she curved into him, brushing her lips under his jaw. She let her shawl fall from her shoulders, and it drifted to the floor. Sandor responded to her closeness. Still holding her to him, he deftly loosened the lacings of her gown while he nuzzled her neck and into her thick hair. She stepped back from him, slowly drawing her gown from her shoulders and breasts and pushing it down over her hips, taking her shift and smallclothes off all at once, baring herself to him. She stepped out of her clothes and waited docilely and Sandor knew what to do, recognizing the submissive Sansa, the girl who wanted him. No, that wasn't right; she always wanted him; this Sansa needed him, needed him to make her feel loved and protected and he would give her that gladly.

Without a word he lifted her in his arms and placed her gently on their bed but then he pulled away from her, gazing down on her momentarily before turning and slowly walking about their chamber, snuffing out candles and closing and latching shutters. Her eyes followed him as he moved, a look both adoring and hungry, and he saw her reach her arms up over her head and rub her long legs together and he knew she was yearning for him. Her lush naked body, offered up to him so willingly and enticingly, was almost enough to bring him to his knees: a weak and worthless supplicant to her beauty and gentleness, a worshipful wretch to his heart's desire. Sandor took a steadying breath, and made himself wait. He would need to be gentle and patient, as he had when they first became lovers, putting her needs before his own desires.

She was no longer the shy maid in their bed after their years together. He loved the confident Sansa, who undressed him and pressed him down on the mattress, mounting him expertly and guiding his rough hands over her body as she rode them to their peaks with her head thrown back like a goddess triumphant. He enjoyed the playful Sansa, who winked at him in the yard or the Great Hall and would tease him and gigglingly let him love her in the stables or passageways of the Keep . There was even the wild wolf who snarled and raked him with her nails when he took her roughly after battles or hard practices, struggling in his grasp even as she bucked her hips to take him in deeper and nearly undoing him with her heat and fire.

She wasn't a wolf tonight; she was his little bird.

As he undressed in the dark, he marveled still that this had happened somehow; though he remembered every moment of their long flight to the North, the battles fought from Winterfell, their marriage and the births of their children and the happy, peaceful years since, there nevertheless still came times such as these when Sandor feared it had all been a dream and that he would wake up on the banks of the Trident, feverish and dying ; or, worse still, in her chamber in the Red Keep with the night sky afire with that eerie green glow, stinking of blood and wine and vomit and about to threaten her life, only to have his raging calmed by her sweet singing…and then abandon her.

He walked to the bed where she waited now, piles of pillows under her head and heaps of furs under her body. The fire still burned in the hearth, sending lashes of flickering light over her milky-white skin, making her look all aflame.

_On fire, and for me._

Her eyes never left his face, the girl who once could not look at him now searched his own eyes hungrily and lovingly and full of need, needing to see that she was his, that they were one. He held her gaze as he placed a large hand on a pillow near her head and swung a powerful leg up onto the bed and settled himself on her gently, his throbbing cock, hard since he had unlaced her and watched her undress, sandwiched between their warm taut bellies.

He returned her intense stare, his eyes moving from the dark blue depths of her own deep Tully-blue gaze to her lips, full and quivering now that held her in his arms. He brought a hand up to caress her hair back, then cup her cheek and rub his thumb over the pink softness of her mouth. He wanted so much to kiss her, to breathe her in; but if he did he would not stop, and he wanted to look into those eyes.

"You're mine, then, little bird?" he rasped low, brushing his lips over hers.

"Yes," she whispered instantly, her warm breath on his face, "yours, Sa-"

He placed his finger on her lips now, hushing her. "No more words, then."

She nodded obediently; and a small whimper of surrender escaped her lips.

_Yes, mine._

His eyes followed his fingertips down over her chin to her long neck as she stretched her throat under his touch, giving herself up to him. He traced gently over the strong pulsing there, where he had once held a sword, and another time his dagger, angry that she would never be his. He bent to kiss it now: his own atonement, willfully given. As he ran his warm hands over her body, he marveled as he had their first time together at her delicacy: the long, thin length of her limbs and the enthralling softness of her skin. He saw her breasts rising and falling with every breath she took. They were even fuller and softer since the children, and they grew firmer under his touch as he caressed them gently.

Sansa stirred beneath him and brought her hands down from over her head, slipping one into his black hair and sliding the other down the length of his back. As he heard her sigh, he slipped his own hand down towards the heat he knew was growing between her legs. She quivered at this touch, curving her hips towards his fingers as he reached her. _Gods._

Poised above her, he pushed her legs further apart with his knee, angling to enter her with one slow, deep thrust. Her wet warmth yielded to him utterly, and her eyes darkened and fluttered under his intense gaze. Her hands stopped gripping his biceps and reached around to his back again, trailing butterfly soft caresses over his scarred skin before trailing delicate circles on his behind as he pulled his hips back and filled her again and again. Her slender supple body rocked and swayed under his hulking, strong frame and he saw the desperate need in her eyes turn to tender love and joy as a gentle smile played on her lips whenever he brought his face closer to hers but did not kiss her. Soon she gripped him tightly, spreading her thighs and raising her hips off the bed and churning against him, her breath coming faster. Sandor knew he would not need to hold back anymore, that she was nearing her peak as strongly and steadily as he was. He reared over her, his hands on each side of her head bearing his weight, driving relentlessly towards his release until he gasped and groaned and shattered resoundingly just as he brought his mouth down to brush her lips. Her eyes fluttered and rolled back as she arched and cleaved into him, all of her sweet breath coming out of her in a hot rush.

"Sandor," she breathed, "oh, Sandor-"

Both shuddered and panted until they were spent, and Sandor required all his remaining strength not to collapse onto her. With trembling arms, he lowered her back onto the bed and pulled her towards him as he turned onto his side, wrapping his arms around her and raining kisses over her flushed face. Feeling her gooseprickled skin, he roughly pushed down the covers beneath them and pulled them back up over their shoulders, burying them under soft furs and warm blankets. She murmured a thanks and snuggled to him, her head resting against his shoulder. He stroked her soft fiery hair as she grew heavy with sleep, hoping that she was comforted and happy, knowing he was; but not having the words to speak it. For how could he not be happy with his wife in his arms and their children sleeping safe and loved near them in the Great Hall. He, Sandor Clegane, the fearsome Hound of Westeros, had everything he thought he would never have: love, a family, a future, all with his little bird; and no one would take it from him. He was safe. He was _home._

"My little bird," he rasped sleepily as he stirred one last time. He bent his burned cheek to the top of his love's head, and he slept.


	8. Chapter 8

"_There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."_

_Catelyn Stark_ GOT

EPILOGUE

"Push, m'lady. It's time."

She bore down with all her might, squeezing her eyes shut and baring her teeth in a grimace as she gave herself up to the pain. When she could bear it no longer, she fell back against the bolster and pillows behind her head and back. Her maid wiped her sweat-beaded brow and offered her wine. She pushed it away feebly.

"My lord?" she asked, breathless.

The midwife looked to Sansa for a reply.

"In the solar, Ayme, or perhaps in the yard," she replied soothingly. "Sandor was going to ride out to find the maester."

"Thank you Sansa, thank you for staying," she trailed off, looking fretful. "It is not taking too long?" She looked to the midwife for reassurance.

The woman shook her head but still looked determined, so it fell to Sansa to reassure her good-sister.

"You're doing well, Ayme; the first time is the longest they say, and truly it has not been long at all."

Ayme tried to smile bravely but her dark eyes were wary and big in her face. Sansa squeezed her hand, remembering how Maege Mormont, the She-Bear herself, had held her hand when she had brought Catya into the world.

"Was- was your first the longest?" Ayme asked her now.

Sansa hesitated; then shook her head. "No, Robb was," she replied simply and did not elaborate, feeling it was not the time at all. She had labored long and hard with Robb and lost much blood. The maester had advised moon tea for at least a year or two, to give herself time in abundance to heal and regain her strength before she had another child.

Sansa had balked, wanting more children and prepared to take the risk; but Sandor had been adamant: if she would not drink the moon tea, he would bed down in the stables. She was still young, and there would be time enough for more pups. Faced with the prospect of an empty bed, Sansa had acquiesced, counting the twenty-four moons until the maester and midwife deemed it safe to try again.

But then over two more years passed and Sansa had begun to curse the sensitive swelling and cramping that signaled the first day of her moon's blood. Fearing her fertile period had come to an end at such a young age, she had retreated to the godswood to weep silently. It was there that Sandor had found her. He hushed her when she tried to explain, and held her until she had cried herself out. She felt he wanted to say something, and finally he did:

"I'm happy enough, little bird," he rasped gruffly, too gruffly truth be told but the simple statement was so like him that she felt comforted.

"As am I," she had murmured into the folds of his cloak where he had pressed her head to stroke her hair. "Only, I wanted Winterfell to be filled again, like it was before."

"It is," he told her, "it will be: your little brother will marry someday, and he'll want a brood too; see if he doesn't, little bird." They had both laughed quietly in the stillness of the godswood.

She came back to the present with a start when Ayme whimpered loudly, reminding her that the first of Rickon's brood was on its way now.

"Again, m'lady-"

Sansa helped Ayme to sit forward and push, crooning words of encouragement as she felt Ayme's fingers dig into her forearm. The girl fell back again, trembling.

"You're doing fine," she told her.

"Which one was the easiest?" Ayme asked her now, and Sansa knew what she meant.

"Brynden," she replied glowingly, referring to her youngest. Nine moons after she and Sandor had told their children of their struggles and their houses, and she had clung to him so desperately and lovingly for comfort, she had joyously brought forth another son, named for his great-great-uncle the Blackfish.

"Oh," Ayme smiled weakly, "I so want to give Rickon a son, Sansa…"

"You will, Ayme; if not this time then another time. I had our daughter first, and Sandor loves her so much." She remembered how the Poole's mother had only birthed daughters, and how she had once feared the same would happen to her when she married Joffrey. _Gods, if I had married him and failed to produce an heir…_ _Bugger him_, she thought mercilessly, sounding like Sandor, _he did not deserve sons or daughters, least by me._

As she mentally dismissed him and raised her chin confidently, the maester entered the chamber.

"Forgive me, my lady, my ladies," he bowed to Ayme where she lay back, then turned to Sansa.

"The crofter's boy?" she asked of him. He had left the Keep only the day before to tend a young boy whose leg had been caught in the wheel of a wagon.

"Will live, my lady, though may be lame. I have done my best for him and it is now in the hands of the Mother; as is our lady here, I see. How goes the birthing?" he asked the midwife now.

"Well," she replied curtly and moved aside for him.

"Good. Let us bring another little Stark into this world…" he smiled encouragingly.

….

Sandor sat in the solar, lazily stretching his long legs in their scarred boots before him towards the hearth. A maid brought wine and a platter of cheese and nuts and he helped himself to a handful, hungry after riding off early to find the maester who was already returning to Winterfell when he found him. When he had told the man that Lady Stark's confinement had begun, they had ridden hard back to the keep.

Rickon paced nervously now, looking to Sandor so terribly young that he did not know If he should reassure him or simply spank him to his senses. But he reminded himself that he understood well his good-brother's concern, having been in his place four times now.

"The maester knows what to do," he told Rickon gruffly as he passed before the hearth, "and your lady is young and strong. All will be well," he said, but with less conviction than he had intended.

"You know that is not always true, brother," Rickon said flatly.

"I do," he replied quietly. Rickon had sat with him in the godswood when Sansa had labored with Robb, though he had scarcely been more than a child himself then. He had sat with Sandor again when Brynden had been born and his worry, more desperate than he hoped he had let on, had been for naught. When Sansa had told him she was expecting again after so many years, he had wanted to be happy, as radiantly happy as she was, but he feared losing her too much.

_I know I was not supposed to have this much, that it was all a mistake; _he had pleaded with any gods, old and new, who would listen to him, _but take me, not her. Don't take my love from her children and brother. She's the strong one, not me: I can't live without her._ He had thanked those gods after, for giving him another son, and more time.

"Why don't we take that beast of yours to the godswood, brother," he offered.

Rickon sat down hard. "Shaggy's too restless," he confessed. "Even I could barely handle him this morning."

Sandor hooted. "He knows, I'll wager: that direwolf is your other half."

Rickon raised his head and looked at him with anxious blue eyes. "So is Ayme."

Sandor nodded solemnly, and waited with his wife's brother. Rickon had turned six-and-ten the previous year, coming into his majority as Lord Stark of Winterfell. He had celebrated with his family and all of Winterfell in the Great Hall, seemingly happy, especially with Jon and Bran in attendance from the Wall. Bran had spoken the words of a sworn brother and planned to sail to Oldtown to train as a maester for the Night's Watch. He would return to train an apprentice under Samwell at Castle Black before leaving for one of the other castles.

The next day Rickon had withdrawn to the walls of Winterfell, walking alone with his direwolf at his side and stopping frequently to stare off into the distance. He was quiet still at supper with his family, until he put down his goblet and turned to Sandor.

"I will need a dozen men to ride out with me tomorrow as guards; my page and squire will accompany me. I hope you will also come with me," he spoke decisively.

"Where do we ride, my lord?" Sandor rasped, hearing the boy's newly authoritative tone.

"Poole," Rickon answered unhesitatingly. "Bran, will you stay until I return? There must always be a Stark at Winterfell."

"Yes, my lord," Bran had replied as he suppressed a smile. They were all suppressing smiles, and then they weren't: grinning happily at what was being left unsaid. Rickon was Lord Stark now, and there was nothing to discuss. Despite all the ravens sent to Winterfell in the last years from lords offering their daughters in marriage as alliance with great houses, Rickon had chosen Ayme Poole.

Sandor looked up now suddenly to see Ayme's young maid in the doorway. She curtsied.

"Spit it out, girl! This is no time for fancy manners!" He rasped rudely

The girl started and trembled, eyes wide. "A b-boy, m'lord. And the maester says my lady is well."

Sandor barely had time to clap Rickon on the back, he had run off so fast. Outside, his direwolf howled.

….

Later that evening, Sansa found Sandor in the walkway leading to the armory, looking out the window into the sun setting over the walls and casting shadows across the yard. She approached him, smiling contentedly, and he turned to her.

"Are you happy, little bird?" He bent to kiss her. "Your next Lord Stark born before your eyes, hm."

She giggled. "Lord Sandor Stark, if it please you," she teased him.

He shook his head ruefully. "That wasn't my idea, little bird; I told your brother his firstborn should have a family name."

Sansa reached up to caress his face now. "Oh, my love, when will you learn? You _are_ family to Rickon, to all of us."

Sandor drew her into his arms and rested his chin on her head as she nestled against his chest. He sighed deeply. "He wants us to stay on," he told her now, "he didn't want there to be any doubt about that."

"Good," she said simply, "if that is what you want," she amended.

"Still chirping courtesies," he observed lightly. "Yes, little bird, that is what I want, this is the most home I have ever had; but it is time also to start making plans for Greywind Keep, for our children and theirs."

Sansa smiled against his tunic, savoring her secret of the babe growing inside her. _Not yet_, she told herself, _today is about Ayme and Rickon and their son._ "Yes," she agreed softly, still smiling happily, "we must plan for our children, Sandor."

FINIS


End file.
